


I Don't Know Why

by saltnhalo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Assassin Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Dean Winchester, Bottom Dean, Confessions, Dom Castiel, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, No Strings Attached, Spy Dean, Strangers to Lovers, Sub Dean, Top Castiel, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-02-22 21:26:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13175535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo
Summary: Dean gets home from a long job to find a note on his front step. He knows exactly who it's from and what it means; it promises fun and danger and a fucking good time, and there's no way he can turn down this invitation.He can never say no to the Angel.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So about a week ago I realised that since June, I've published 195k of work. I wanted to get that to a 200k total before the new year, and so this fun, sexy little fic was born. The title (and really, the whole fic) is based off the song [I Don't Know Why](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=izhxTx4LVWo) by Imagine Dragons. I recommend listening to it before you read this. It's a sexy, sexy song. Thank you to [Nat](http://myheartofmusic.tumblr.com) for the idea, and [Makenna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope) for the heart attack and beta read.
> 
> Enjoy!

It feels good to be back driving his Baby again, and Dean smiles softly to himself as he slides his hands over the familiar shape of her wheel. There’s no way that her sleek shape and rumbling purr could ever compare to the fancy piece of imported garbage that he’d had to drive while undercover. It’s always hard to shed pieces of himself and fashion himself into a completely different person, but being separated from his beautiful car is possibly one of the hardest parts of his job.

Apart from the espionage and the danger and the life-or-death situations, he supposes.

Dean grins as he flicks on the indicator and turns up the familiar, winding driveway. His property is protected by a long stretch of fence, and Dean has to punch in this week’s code before the gate will open to grant him access. The mechanism whirrs quietly back to life once he’s through, the barred steel gate closing behind the Impala and the floodlights shutting off again as Dean drives the rest of the short way up to his garage.

It feels good to be home – despite the fact that he’s still partially Dean Smith, with his slicked back hair and suspenders and manicured hands, he feels much more himself here, behind his tall fences and in the safety of his own home. This is the only place where he can be Dean _Winchester_ , where he can be himself without fear of discovery or weakness or manipulation.

It may be designed like a fortress, but this is _home_. He’s even whistling happily to himself as he closes the garage door on his Baby and makes his way up the path to his front door.

Until he sees the white card that’s been left on his front step.

Immediately, Dean knows who it’s from. He doesn’t need to read the words, but he knows he will anyway, stooping to pick the card up and throwing a glance over his shoulder as if his visitor could still be around. It’s foolish, he knows. He’s long gone, clever enough not to get caught hanging around Dean’s place.

Plus, it’s more fun like this. With jobs like theirs, it’s easy to get addicted to the danger and the mystery.

Dean gives up on his half-hearted searching and returns his gaze to the card, one thumb stroking over the corner.

_Welcome home, Hunter. See you tomorrow night._

Dean shivers.

He knows exactly who it’s from, exactly why it was left, exactly what it means.

It’s a promise.

As though it’ll be different this time around, Dean turns fully to look out across the darkened expanse of his yard. Nothing moves; it’s just the gentle sway of grass and trees, dark and silvered and mysterious in the moonlight. His visitor’s been and gone, and Dean suspects that even though he’s personally installed every piece of his security system, when he checks the tapes, they’ll be blank.

He’s good, but sometimes he wonders if the Angel is better.

Just how the card ended up on his front step is unimportant, though. Dean isn’t in any danger of being robbed or attacked – the Angel is the only person who could get past his security, and they have an agreement and a healthy respect for each other.

They also have a date.

~ 

The bouncers at the front door recognize Dean and unclip the velvet rope by the door to let him inside, bypassing the long line of hopefuls seeking entry to one of the most prestigious clubs in the area. He notices a few scowls and muttered words as he skips the line, but doesn’t bother to pay them any heed. Dean has worked hard for such a prestigious position in Michael’s hierarchy, and he doesn’t care about the jealousy of outsiders who watch him and wonder how he managed to skip the queue.

He’s much more satisfied with the flash of fear he sees in the eyes of the younger bouncer as he passes. It seems that his reputation and mystery precede him, then.

But Dean isn’t here on business tonight.

He’s here for pleasure.

Michael’s club is one of the city’s hotspots, always packed to the brim and flowing with the best alcohol and music that money can buy – since Michael certainly has no shortage of it. Dean doesn’t visit often, usually only dropping by if he needs to meet Michael in his offices upstairs.

Ever since he walked out of Michael’s office and nearly smacked into the man waiting outside in the hallway, he’s been patronizing the establishment for other reasons.

It’s a good, neutral meeting ground – though it seems that the Angel has no issues with sneaking onto Dean’s property. Perhaps next time they should just cut all the bullshit and meet there, if Dean’s occasional visitor is so happy to invite himself in.

Still, Dean doesn’t mind playing along, since he’s been working for a couple of weeks and could really use some time to relax and unwind. As he steps into the club, the bass of the music kicks his pulse up a few notches, and he grins as anticipation and excitement begin to build in his stomach.

Since the Angel was the one to initiate this, he’ll find Dean. Although he still keeps an eye out for anything out of place, his observational habits formed from years of training and practice, Dean lets himself relax a little. He doesn’t need to be in a constant state of hyper-vigilance, not here. There’s security everywhere – and while they wouldn’t have a snowflake’s chance in hell at taking down either Dean or the man he’s here to meet, their presence ensures that Dean can relax a little and not have to worry about constantly watching his back.

Plus, Michael’s security definitely recognizes him, and will definitely recognize the Angel when he turns up. They’ll make sure to stay out of the way – they know the reputations of the Hunter and the Angel.

They won’t be interrupted.

Since there’s little for Dean to do now but wait for the Angel to find him, he figures he may as well enjoy himself a little. He weaves his way through the crowd on light feet, keeping his presence quiet and muted by habit. This dance between them is always so much more fun if he doesn’t make it easy for the Angel.

There’s no way that the bartender could possibly know who he is, since the lowest levels of Michael’s staff aren’t privy to such a high level of clearance within the organization, but it only takes a wink and a crooked half-smile to get the young man’s attention. “Double whiskey, neat, please,” Dean tells him, pitching his voice to carry over the club’s loud music but not shouting. He’s not an animal, and he rather enjoys the dazed expression on the man’s face as he nods dumbly and rushes to carry out Dean’s order. It helps to be able to pass unnoticed sometimes, but also to be able to crank up the charm when he needs to.

Dean’s drink appears on the bar in front of him, and he thanks the bartender with a smile, but turns away before the kid can try and flirt with him like he’s obviously working himself up to do. There’s no way that he’d settle for that when he’s meeting the Angel tonight – even the thought has arousal and anticipation flooding through him.

He’d better turn up soon.

The drink disappears quickly. Dean is well-trained, and a several-month-long undercover assignment won’t make him nervous at all, but here he is relying on alcohol to calm his jittering nerves and dull the edge of anticipation.

Any more alcohol right now would be a mistake, but it’s been a long time since Dean had an opportunity to just relax and let loose a little. He sets his empty glass back down on the counter and makes his way out of the throng of people surrounding the bar. The dancefloor is a writhing, jumping mass of people, sporadically illuminated by flashing, sweeping lights and scored by deep, bass-heavy music designed to drive the crowd wild.

It’s the perfect place for a handoff or an attack or a hit, and Dean has to force himself to shut off that part of his brain. He’s not here on business. He’s here to have a good fucking time, and he grins to himself as he pushes into the crowd.

There’s something wild and raw and feral about this kind of dancing that sets it so far apart from Dean’s classical ballroom training. This dancing isn’t about elegance and refinement and appearing to be one of the elite. This dancing is about sex and seduction, about letting go and feeling the throb of the music in his bones.

Dean throws his hands up into the air and dances like he belongs here. Which, he supposes he does. He can fit into any world that he chooses, after all.

The Angel, not so much.

After a few minutes, out of the corner of his eye, Dean spots an anomaly in the movement of the crowd. It’s subtle, so tiny that no-one else would ever even focus on it, let alone be alerted by it. His lips curl up into a grin, and he continues to dance, keeping his focus on the slight difference until, by his judgement, it’s right behind him.

Strong hands grip his hips and pull him back against a firm chest. Breath ghosts over the shell of his ear, and Dean can feel the rumble of the man’s voice where they’re pressed together. A shiver runs down his spine.

“Guess who.”

Dean mostly stills his movements, though he can’t help continuing to sway his hips to the infectious beat. He reaches one hand up behind him, sliding his hand up the Angel’s neck and tangling his fingers in the man’s hair. “I know it’s you, Cas. I’m a fuckin’ spy, I can tell when one person in the crowd isn’t dancing.”

Lips graze over the curve of his neck, and Dean’s breath hitches. He knows Castiel felt it; he can feel the man smile against his throat. “I was dancing, was I not?”

He had been, and to anyone else, it would’ve looked normal. But Dean knows Cas, knows his every single quirk and attribute, and he’d known as soon as he’d spotted him from the slightly stiff quality to his movement.

“Technically, yeah,” he admits, leaning his head back against Cas’s shoulder. One of the hands on his hips splays possessively across his abdomen, dipping under the hem of his t-shirt and settling brand-hot over Dean’s skin. “But you gotta give me a little more credit, here.”

Castiel drags his teeth lightly over Dean’s throat and nips at his earlobe, almost turning Dean into putty. “So I suppose you know exactly how I got past your security system, then?” he rumbles, sounding almost amused. Dean clenches his jaw – the cocky fucker. “I’ll get you one day,” he mutters, though he knows that in reality, he probably won’t.

He may be a spy, an expert in assimilating amongst people, but Castiel is better than he will ever be at getting in and out of places undetected. The only trace of his presence anyone ever finds are the bodies that he leaves behind.

Dean changes the topic. “So how’d you know I was coming home yesterday? I’ve been away for weeks.” He starts to move again, shifting his hips to the beat of the music. After a few seconds, Cas begins to move with him. They fit together perfectly, Castiel still pressed up against Dean’s back as they dance together. Dean scratches his nails lightly over Cas’s scalp, keeping him close, and is rewarded with a low groan.

“A good magician never reveals his secrets, Dean.” One hand ghosts along his side, the other still settled firmly over his hip, and Dean feels Castiel grin against his neck. “But I may have heard that Michael finally got his hands on a deal with the Infierno cartel, after the previous kingpin they were supporting ended up in jail.” Cas mouths lazily down Dean’s neck to the curve of his collarbone, and Dean groans, grinding his hips back against Castiel.

“You wouldn’t have had anything to do with that, would you?” Cas asks, his voice laced with amusement. Dean grins breathlessly and shrugs one shoulder. “Dunno what you’re talking about, Cas.”

The hands on Dean’s hips tighten, and then, faster than he can react, he finds himself spun around on the spot and pressed chest-to-chest with Castiel.

Cas’s eyes are even more piercingly blue than he remembers, and his teeth flash white in the low light of the club as he grins. He’s beautiful and dangerous and lethal and it makes Dean weak at the knees. “That’s a shame,” Cas murmurs as Dean winds his arms around his neck. They’re the only two not dancing, caught in this electrified moment between them. “I heard the man who took them down was rather handsome.”

His lips curl into a wicked smirk, and it’s time for Dean to regain some ground, or he’ll be in danger of being swept away by the current.

He slides one hand up and threads his fingers through Castiel’s hair again, tugging lightly on it before he drops his head and seals their mouths together in a searing kiss.

Castiel rumbles his approval and tilts his head, his tongue sweeping across the seam of Dean’s lips and his hands tight on Dean’s hips, keeping the two of them pressed close. Dean likes to pretend that sometimes he gains the higher ground, but being with Cas is like touching a live wire, and he’s powerless to do anything but give in as Castiel takes control of the kiss. Their tongues slide together when Dean parts his lips, and his hips stutter against Cas’s as two firm hands slide down and grip his ass over his jeans.

He can feel where Cas is hard inside his tight jeans, and can’t help but grind his own aching erection against the man’s bulge. Their movements are less like dancing and more just rutting, but Dean couldn’t care less. He’s too swept up in the intoxicating feeling of being this close to Cas, of the fire itching beneath his skin as Cas touches him and pulls him close.

With the crowds of people all around them and bass of the music thudding through his very being, Castiel’s touches make him feel _alive_.

When they finally separate for air, Cas keeps them close together, his hands shifting from Dean’s ass to the small of his back to his hips, as though he can’t figure out where he wants to touch Dean. His hair is a mussed-up mess from the drag of Dean’s fingers, and there’s a possessive spark in his blue eyes that makes it hard for Dean to catch his breath.

From the lazy, feral curl of Cas’s half-smile, he’s well aware of the effect he has on Dean.

“I’ve had to wait too long for that,” he growls, one of his thumbs rubbing idly over Dean’s hipbone as they move in time with the music. “I thought I’d be able to see you when I got back from my job in Boston, but then I found out that Michael sent you away to work. It took you too damn long to come home.”

Dean knows that the arrangement between them is simply sexual, but sometimes he wonders if that’s really all it’s destined to be.

He wonders if the man in front of him is coming to _care_ for him, in their own fucked up way.

But Dean doesn’t want to think about that right now – he just got back from a stressful job, he needs to unwind, and Cas knows exactly how to push his buttons just right.

“Is that a dig at my efficiency there, Cas?,” he teases, arching one eyebrow. “I’ll have you know that my job requires a bit more work than just turning up, staking out and putting a bullet in someone.” He grins and drags his fingers through Castiel’s hair again, then settles his hand on the back of Cas’s neck. Castiel hums, an unreadable look passing across his face for a fraction of a second before it disappears again, replaced by a teasing smirk.

“So you tell me, Dean. You’re…” He drops his head and drags his lips over the curve of Dean’s neck, pressing his words into the sensitive, vulnerable skin. “Very talented.”

 _Fuck_.

“Cas,” he groans, barely audible over the loud music, but he knows that Cas hears him from the way that the man smirks against his neck. “Yes, Dean?”

He can’t take any more of this back and forth, ramping up the sexual tension to almost unbearable levels. There’s a limit to how far they can go on the dancefloor, and Dean isn’t about to settle for grinding until they come in their pants like teenagers, or covert handjobs in the middle of the dancing crowd.

No, they need to find somewhere more private, and they need to do it _now_.

Cas must see this on Dean’s face when he lifts his head again, because his expression shifts into something a little more predatory that has anticipation settling heavy in Dean’s gut. Without saying anything, Cas lets go of Dean and wraps his fingers around one wrist, turning to make his way out of the crowd and pulling Dean with him. He has no choice but to follow – not that he’d want to do anything else.

They make it to the opposite side of the dancefloor, to the hallway cordoned off by more velvet rope that leads upstairs to Michael’s offices, where he conducts his business. They don’t have an appointment, but the members of security recognize them as they approach.

From the wild way Cas’s hair sticks up, and the hickey that Dean suspects is forming just above his collarbone, their intentions can’t be that hard to deduce, especially when Cas lets go of Dean’s wrist to settle a possessive hand on the small of his back. Security won’t try and stop them, though. It’s not worth them getting in the way of Michael’s most prized spy and assassin, and as long as Dean and Cas keep doing their jobs well, Michael doesn’t care what else they get up to.

The burly man unclips the rope for them to pass, and Dean smirks and winks at him as they step past, enjoying the wary look in the man’s eyes.

The hallway here is much quieter, the sound of the club’s music reduced to a muted thump as Cas guides Dean along with the hand on the small of his back. He seems to be considering something, and Dean grins as Cas pushes open one of the doors on the right-hand side of the hallway.

It’s one of Michael’s private bathrooms, detailed in brass and gold, with extravagant golden lighting and tiled floors and a mirror above the sinks that spans the whole wall. It’s definitely one of the nicer places in the club that they’ve hooked up, though one of these days, Dean wouldn’t mind cutting the shit and meeting somewhere with an actual bed.

Now isn’t the time to bring that up, though, not when he’s itching with the need for a good, hard fuck, and not when Cas is flipping the lock on the door and turning to face Dean. He gives a breathless grin as Cas’s eyes rake over his black t-shirt and tight jeans now that they’re in some proper lighting. “What, see something you like?”

Castiel’s eyes flick up to meet his, and the ghost of a smirk is all the warning that Dean gets before Cas is right up in his space, pressing him backwards until his back connects with the wall. Sometimes he forgets just how fast Cas is, how dangerous and lethal, as he touches Dean with hands that have taken countless lives.

It’s an unavoidable by-product of their industry, and Dean would be lying if the knowledge of just how deadly Cas is didn’t turn him on a little. He’s addicted to it.

“Very much so,” Cas growls, his hips pinning Dean’s against the wall as one hand slides up into Dean’s hair. Dean gasps softly as Castiel tugs on his hair and forces his head back a little, giving a small smirk despite the prickles of pain. Now _this_ is what he wanted.

“Now we’re talking,” he purrs, settling his hands on Cas’s shoulders and lightly raking his nails down the man’s chest, over the fabric of his t-shirt. Castiel forces his head back further and kisses him again, hot and deep and _claiming_. Dean can’t help but shudder and curl his fingers into the fabric of Cas’s shirt.

The kiss fries his brain and his awareness so much that it takes Dean a few seconds to realize that the fingers of Cas’s other hand are working deftly at the button and fly of his jeans. He groans and bites down on Castiel’s bottom lip, breaking the kiss to gasp out a curse as Cas successfully shoves his jeans down and slips a hand beneath Dean’s boxer-briefs to wrap a hand around his aching erection.

“Fuck, Cas,” he whimpers into the air as Castiel strokes him with light, teasing movements, his head thudding back against the wall as his legs wobble. The hand in his hair releases its grip, and then there are two fingers pressing at Dean’s lips. He parts his lips willingly and sucks them in, swirling his tongue greedily around the digits and wishing that they were the heavy weight of Cas’s cock. That may not be part of Cas’s plans for tonight, but Dean definitely isn’t against being shoved to his knees on the bathroom’s tiled floor.

It seems like Cas has other ideas.

Before Dean can react, Cas is letting go of him completely, pulling his fingers away and  his hand out of Dean’s pants. The next second, Cas grabs his hips hard and spins him in place, shoving Dean face-first against the wall. It knocks the breath out of him, and he groans, pressing his cheek against the wall. “Don’t move,” Cas cautions, grabbing Dean’s wrists and crossing them at the small of Dean’s back.

He flexes his fingers and tries to muffle his moan of arousal by biting his bottom lip as Cas knocks his feet apart to widen his stance. The hand that curls into his hair and pulls on the short strands pulls a gasp from Dean’s chest, and he closes his eyes as Cas chuckles behind him, low and dark. “So needy, Dean. Are you like this for everyone? All the men and women you seduce as part of your job? Or just for me?”

 _Just for you_ , Dean thinks as Cas tugs on his hair again. _Just for you, Cas_. But the words catch in his throat, and then the thought dissipates as Castiel’s hands slide down his body to the waistband of his jeans, shoving them down over the curve of his ass.

They’re getting straight to it tonight, then. Not that Dean blames Cas – it’s been a while since they met here, what with both of their various assignments. He’s not interested in too much foreplay tonight.

Dean spreads his legs a little wider, as much as he can with his jeans still tangled around his thighs. He can hear the click of a bottle cap behind him, and he clenches his fingers into fists, but doesn’t otherwise move. He just has to wait.

One hand settles on his ass, hot and possessive, and spreads his cheeks to expose his hole. Dean can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed at the vulnerable position that Cas has put him in – he’s already desperate, and when he feels one of Cas’s slick fingers brush against his hole, he groans out a soft “ _fuck_.” His whole body trembles with the effort of keeping still and not pressing back against the fingertip teasing at his rim, easing in just a little and toying with the edge of his rim until Dean feels like he might go crazy.

“Cas,” he pleads, squeezing his eyes shut as the single finger pauses. Castiel presses himself along the length of Dean’s back, and Dean can feel his breaths puffing over the back of his neck. “Yes, Dean?” he asks, and the smirk in his voice is more than evident. Fuck, but he’s frustrating sometimes.

“If you don’t get around to fucking me, I’m gonna go find some other dick to ride,” he growls. He wouldn’t, and they both know that, but it ignites the possessive side of Cas regardless.

Castiel threads his fingers through Dean’s hair and pulls at the same time that he slides his finger all the way into him with one smooth thrust. Dean groans against the wall, grinning to himself as Cas pulls his head back and bites along the curve of his throat. They’ve been playing this game for long enough that they know each other. It’s nothing but another dance to them.

One finger turns into two and then three, Cas stretching him out too quickly for it to be completely comfortable, but Dean doesn’t care. Sometimes he likes it to hurt a little, likes the dull burn of Cas’s fingers and the sharp pain of his teeth to keep him grounded. One day, he’d like to explore that further with Cas, somewhere where they can take their time and do things properly, instead of harried hookups in bathrooms and storage closets.

Not that he’s got a problem with that.

Cas’s fingertips brush across his prostate and Dean’s hips stutter, canting back to try and encourage Cas to do it again, but he simply withdraws his fingers, leaving Dean’s hole empty and fluttering. Dean swears under his breath, his thighs trembling, as Castiel steps back. The _fucker_. At least they can get to the main event now, though. Dean’s been itching for it ever since he found the card on his doorstep.

“Take off your jeans,” he hears Castiel say, the sound a little foggy and distorted as he tries to piece together the information in his overstimulated brain. It takes a few seconds for him to then coordinate his limbs; first, he kicks off his boots, then pushes his jeans and underwear down his legs until he can kick them off onto the tiled floor.

He might be imagining it, but Cas’s hands feel gentler as they settle on his hips and turn him back around until his back is pressed against the wall.

Dean reaches out and curls his fingers into the front of Cas’s shirt, pulling him in for a messy, desperate kiss. It’s been too damn long since he saw Cas, too damn long since he was _properly_ fucked, and he bites down hard on Castiel’s bottom lip as his impatience grows. Cas just chuckles against his lips, kissing Dean one last time before pulling away.

This time, though, Dean won’t complain about Cas not kissing him any more, because Castiel’s hands are going to the button of his jeans and yeah, that’s something Dean can get on board with. He’s obviously impatient, because the jeans are only shoved down enough to free his cock. Dean isn’t sure how his legs still continue to hold him up as he watches Cas empty the last of the lube bottle onto his cock and stroke himself, chapped lips parting around soft sounds of pleasure and his lashes fluttering.

Cas is going to be the death of him. It’s probably the first time that the assassin has killed someone through sex.

“You just gonna jerk off and leave me hangin’, here?” Dean teases, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. Castiel looks up, his hand still moving slowly over his cock as he watches Dean. He feels his bravado leave him as he’s pinned under Castiel’s unwavering gaze, his tongue sliding out to wet his lips. The air between them feels electrically charged, the prickle of static and the calm before the storm.

“What would you like me to do, Dean?” Castiel’s voice is soft and quiet, but there’s an edge to it, like the sharpened steel blade of a sword. It sends a shiver down Dean’s spine, and he bites his bottom lip.

“Fuck me.”

Castiel grins, slow and feral. He closes the distance between them with careful, measured steps, pressing a lingering kiss to Dean’s lips before sliding his hands under his thighs and lifting. Dean wraps his legs around Castiel’s waist, gripping tight with his thighs and winding his arms around Cas’s neck. There are a few fumbling seconds that pass as Cas manoeuvres himself, and then the head of his cock is pressing against Dean’s rim. He tilts his hips and clings tighter to the back of Cas’s shirt as he’s lowered, inch by agonizingly slow inch, onto Castiel’s cock.

Eventually, Cas’s hips press against Dean’s ass, and he shudders at the feeling of fullness. They’re pressed close together like this, panted breaths mingling in the air between them as they adjust. Dean leans his head back against the wall – he can feel the heavy weight of Castiel’s gaze on him, and grins breathlessly at the man as he opens his eyes again.

There’s that _look_ again. For the life of him, Dean can’t put his finger on what it means. It’s possible that he doesn’t want to.

“I thought you were gonna fuck me, _Angel_ ,” he goads, shifting his hips and clenching around Cas’s girth. It seems to do the trick, because the expression disappears, and Cas smirks, his grip tightening on Dean’s thighs. “So pushy,” he growls, and any retort that Dean could have come up with quickly dissolves on his tongue as Cas pulls out halfway and then thrusts back into him, keeping Dean pinned against the wall with his bodyweight.

Castiel, when he fucks, is all hard thrusts and dirty grinds of his hips and grip so tight that it leaves bruises on Dean’s skin the next day. It’s enough to short-circuit Dean’s brain at the best of times. His back slides against the wall with each of Cas’s thrusts, and when he tangles a hand in Cas’s hair and pulls him in for a kiss, it’s messy and uncoordinated, but he couldn’t care less right now.

When Cas’s cock slides over his prostate, Dean can’t hold back his moan of pleasure, and Cas grins against his lips. He aims for that spot over and over again, reducing Dean to a needy, writhing mess. His thighs clench around Cas’s waist, and his hands tremble where they’re fisted in Cas’s hair and his shirt. Anyone who walks past the bathroom at this point would undoubtedly be able to hear Dean’s loud moans and Cas’s grunts of exertion as he holds Dean up and fucks into him, but neither of them care right now, focused solely on their own pleasure.

Dean feels like he’s going to shake apart as Castiel presses him hard against the wall and grinds his hips in circles, rubbing mercilessly over his prostate. “Cas, please, please, fuck, I need to come, Cas,” he begs, pressing his forehead against Castiel’s and breathing desperate whimpers into the air between them.

Cas presses their lips together in a quick kiss and shifts his grip on Dean’s thighs. “Touch yourself,” he whispers, and Dean is only too happy to obey.

He drops a hand to his neglected erection, and it takes barely half a dozen strokes before he’s coming with a cry, droplets spattering over his and Cas’s dark t-shirts. Castiel groans as the muscles of Dean’s ass clench around his cock and redoubles his efforts, the wet sound of lube and slap of skin nearly obscene as he chases his climax. Dean simply clings to him, spent and exhausted, his fingers carding loosely through Cas’s hair.

A minute later, Cas comes with a moan that sounds suspiciously like Dean’s name, grinding his hips in little circles as he comes deep inside Dean’s ass.

They stay like that for a while, panting as they catch their breath, with foreheads still pressed together and Dean’s arms around Cas’s neck.

Castiel lets go of Dean’s thigh with one hand, keeping him pinned against the wall with his hips as he cups Dean’s cheek. Dean leans into the touch, his cheeks flushed, still riding the high of his orgasm with his lips curled up into a lazy, sated grin. Sex with Cas is never disappointing, and he’s beautiful like this, with his darkened blue eyes and the way his sweat-damp hair curls at his temples. 

“I like you better like this,” Cas says in the quiet moments that follow, his thumb stroking over the arch of Dean’s cheekbone. “Without the fancy clothes and the excessive hair gel.”

And that gets Dean’s attention. He forces his gaze to focus on Cas’s face, his eyes half-lidded as he blinks. “You were watching me?” How long had Cas been watching him for? Had it been just on his way home, or while he’d been working? When?

 _Why_?

Cas just smiles, and it’s soft, just for a second, before it’s replaced by his usual teasing smirk. “What was it you said?” he asks as he slips out of Dean and lowers him back down to the ground to stand on shaky legs. “Give me some credit.”

He tucks himself back into his underwear and zips his jeans back up – Dean is still too shell-shocked to do much else but watch, not trusting himself to be able to co-ordinate his limbs enough to dress right now. The night still feels too young as Cas leans in to kiss Dean one last time, slow and deep. He doesn’t want this to end, not yet.

But, like anything, it has to. Cas steps back, his gaze raking over Dean one last time, taking in his bare legs, the marks forming on his throat, the spots of come on his t-shirt. He grins, but again, it’s tempered by something else.

“Until next time, Hunter,” he says, then turns away. The click of the door’s closing mechanism sounds far too loud in the silence of Castiel’s departure, and Dean blows out a long breath. His thoughts are a swirling mess, and he doesn’t quite know where to start picking them apart.

There’s one thing he’s sure of, though.

He really needs to figure out where Cas lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos or a comment if you enjoyed this! I know I loved writing it. Thank you to everyone who has supported me this year - 200k is a huge achievement, and I would not have been able to get that much out into the big wide world without all the kindness of my lovely readers and supporters.
> 
> Come find me on [Tumblr](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't get this idea out of my head. Like I needed more projects to juggle... There will be a third chapter after this one.
> 
> Enjoy.

Castiel has to fight the urge to tap his foot impatiently as he waits outside the door to Michael’s office. Although he’s practiced in not showing his emotions, he’s been waiting outside for half an hour now with no explanation as to why. They were supposed to be debriefing after Castiel’s most recent job – an easy target, with four days of recon and not even a full day of staking out before he found his opportunity. It had almost been _too_ easy. No matter – there are other ways that he can scratch that itch.

Instead, Michael seems to have been on the phone since before Castiel even arrived, and the wait is making him impatient. Michael may be his boss, but Castiel deserves more respect than to be kept waiting outside with absolutely no explanation as to why.

He uncrosses his legs, stretches them out in front of him, then crosses them the other way, his right ankle resting on his left knee. It’s not a necessary adjustment – he can spend hours out in the field, unmoving, able to ignore any aches or discomfort – but he’s getting antsy at the long wait, especially when there are other things he could be doing. Moving around a little at least gives him something to do.

The intercom beside the door buzzes five minutes later, and Michael’s voice crackles out of it.

“Castiel, come in.”

He’s out of his chair in a flash, but takes a second to straighten his shirt and slacks before pushing open the door to his boss’s office.

Michael’s office doesn’t look any different, and neither does the man himself, but there’s a sharp tension in the air that crackles over Castiel’s skin as soon as he steps inside. His boss is almost as adept at hiding his emotions as Castiel – but the tension manifests itself in the tiny frown line between his brows, and the whiteness of his knuckles where they sit folded on the desk in front of him.

Something is wrong.

But Michael doesn’t mention it, simply greets him with a smile just this side of terse, and gestures for Castiel to take a seat. He does.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting so long, Castiel. There was an urgent situation that I had to deal with. I’m sure you understand.”

It’s not Castiel’s place to know the intricacies of Michael’s business, or the kinds of problems he may be having to deal with, but it still sparks a hint of curiosity within him. But it doesn’t affect Castiel, unless Michael tells him otherwise, and Michael must be dealing with urgent situations regularly with his business, so Castiel lets it go. “I understand, sir.”

The de-briefing is just that; brief. It was so routine and easy that there isn’t much to discuss, and Michael has few questions once Castiel has finished outlining the job, and his decisive nod signals to Castiel that the meeting is over. Still, he can’t help but ask, ever-curious –

“Do you anticipate requiring my services in the near future?”

The way Michael sighs out a long breath, closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose for a second is remarkably uncharacteristic of the man. Either he’s letting himself slip because of the extremity of the urgent matter he’s dealing with, or he trusts Castiel more than he had anticipated.

Either way, it’s surprising.

“I’ll have to see how this situation plays out, and what route I’ll have to take. I recently received some intelligence that I was going to have you use for your next job, but with these complications that have arisen, I may or may not need you for something different. Either way, the original job is on hold, and if I suspect that I will need you to deal with this unexpected… unpleasantness, I will let you know.”

Castiel knows when he’s been dismissed. He nods and rises from his chair; the phone rings before he’s even made it to the door, then cuts off as Michael picks up the receiver. Although he’s speaking quietly, Castiel can still make out a few words as he exits the room.

“How is he? … find the … _fuck_ … if he surfaces, then –“

There’s no way that Castiel could stall in the office to try and hear more, and the conversation cuts off as soon as he closes the door behind him, the state-of-the-art soundproofing doing its job.

Whatever this issue is, it’s causing problems in Michael’s business – but that’s not any of Castiel’s concern unless Michael calls him in for an official job. No, he’s much more focused on something else that had been mentioned.

Michael recently received some intelligence, and Castiel knows what that means.

Dean has completed his job. He should be coming home soon, if he isn’t already. A thrill of anticipation races up his spine, and despite his training, he smiles to himself. He can’t wait to see Dean again.

~

Castiel finds himself back at Michael’s club the next evening. He’s beginning to grow tired of the atmosphere – when he’s with Dean, it makes everything a thousand times more electric, but when he’s stuck waiting for him, the dancing, the people, the music… it all just feels tedious. Still, he knows Dean will be here tonight, and that low thrum of anticipation through his veins is better than alcohol, better than drugs, as he threads his way through the crowds and watches for a familiar silhouette.

The night wears on, and Dean is nowhere to be found. Castiel expands the radius of his searching – because it _is_ searching now, not nonchalant but confused, concerned – until it encompasses the bar and even the back rooms.

Dean isn’t here.

He’s never not turned up – Castiel has always been impeccably timed with his notes, and yesterday’s was no different. Dean’s estate had been just like it always has, and there’s no way that Dean had missed the white card left on his doorstep. So why isn’t he here? Does he not need to scratch that post-job itch? Is he tired of their arrangement?

Is he tired of _Cas_?

Something twists painfully in Castiel’s chest and he shakes his head like he can dislodge the thought. It’s stupid – he’s not that attached to Dean. What would it matter if Dean no longer wanted to meet?

He forces himself to keep looking, even until the club officially closes. Every last patron trickles out through the front doors, and none of them are Dean.

Castiel stands alone on the dancefloor.

~

He’s back at the club the next night, but it isn’t to dance, or to meet with Dean.

It’s to meet with Michael.

When Dean hadn’t turned up last night, Castiel had summarized that there must have been a _reason_ for it – a reason beyond simple boredom. He’d broken into Dean’s property for the second time in three days, but this time, he took it a step further.

Dean’s house looked quiet, untouched, as though its inhabitant had been away for a long time. Castiel hadn’t gone in – that felt far too much like an invasion of privacy, a line that he isn’t willing to cross, because this isn’t just a game or a joke any more. But he’d peered through the windows, climbed up to the balcony outside Dean’s room to find a still-perfectly-made bed and no trace of Dean having been there in the past three weeks (not that he’s been counting).

But the real sign that there was something wrong, that things weren’t right with Dean, wasn’t in the house.

It was in the garage, and in the absence of Dean’s sleek black muscle car.

Michael had received the intelligence, but Dean had never returned home.

And now Castiel wants some fucking answers.

He knocks sharply on the door to Michael’s office. He’s not suicidal enough to just barge in, despite the fear and concern and anger swirling around in his mind, but just showing up unannounced and demanding to see his boss without an appointment is pushing it far enough.

Castiel lifts his face towards the camera in the corner above the door and watches the red light blink; seconds later, Michael’s voice crackles tersely through the intercom. “Enter, Novak.”

He does – Michael stands as he enters, palms pressed against the surface of his desk. He doesn’t look happy, and this time, there’s no invitation to sit.

“You’d better have a damn good reason for interrupting my work, Castiel,” Michael growls, and while Castiel isn’t scared by the tone, he dips his head deferentially. He isn’t going to get anywhere by antagonising his boss, he knows that.

“I apologize for interrupting, but I have some questions that I would like answers to. Well, one question, really,” he amends.

“I don’t make a habit of entertaining upstart employees who barge into my office demanding answers,” Michael tells him warningly. He’s playing a dangerous game, referring to such a renowned assassin as an ‘upstart employee’, but Castiel will let it slide. This time.

“Where is Dean Winchester, Michael?” Castiel’s voice is quiet but carries all the weight and steel of someone who is not afraid to resort to further measures if he is not provided the answers that he is searching for.

He sees Michael weigh him up in the shift of his eyes and the slight tilt of his head. Castiel doesn’t bend under Michael’s gaze, his back ramrod straight and his eyes burning with cold blue fire.

Michael relents; it’s evident to Castiel, in the slight slump of his shoulders and the twist to his mouth, but he hides it well.

The split-second glimpse is gone as Michael sits back down behind his desk, his expression impassive once again, but Castiel knows better. His boss wouldn’t have kept him and Dean around for so long if he didn’t have a soft spot for them, which is probably why he’s allowing Castiel to demand answers from him.

But when Michael speaks, Castiel almost wishes that he hadn’t asked, his world tilting on its axis.

“Dean was attacked.”

~

There’s only one side of Dean that Castiel has truly met; the façade he keeps up, with his crooked grins and flirtatiousness and charm, the satisfied way he gasps out “yeah, right there,” and the irresistible way he sways his hips when he knows Cas is watching.

Sure, he’s seen glimpses of another Dean, a more vulnerable Dean, but they’ve always been quickly hidden. It doesn’t pay to be too vulnerable, even around other people who understand the nature of their trade. Still, Castiel has somewhat come to crave them – he loves to see how far he can push Dean, whether he can break down those walls even just a little bit. It’s always so rewarding when Dean really loses himself, or lets himself be vulnerable.

But this…

This is _wrong_.

Dean, always so vibrant and full of life, looks pale and small in the hospital bed, dwarfed by the machines monitoring his breathing and his heart rate and god knows what else.

He’d been finishing up after his most recent job, Michael had said, and Cas can picture it. To anyone else, Dean may have looked an easy target, still dressed in the clothes of the persona he’d been pretending to be, fitting in with the elite. But the job had been done, the information sent, and Dean would have been back to being _Dean_.

He may have looked like easy pickings to the group of thugs sent after him by one of Michael’s rivals, but in truth, he was anything but.

When they’d found him, half a block from where the Impala was surreptitiously parked and unconscious on the concrete, they’d also found two corpses in the mouth of the alleyway, not far from Dean. He’d put up a fight – beautiful, yes, but also lethal – and had taken two down with him.

That’s two less men than Castiel will have to worry about.

They won’t know any more details than they can glean from the scenario until Dean wakes up. It could be at any point, though Castiel has seen enough injuries to assume that it won’t be any time soon.

Concussion, dislocated shoulder, lacerations and bruising on the face and hands, fractured and broken ribs, bruising both externally and internally across Dean’s chest. They’re still running tests to determine the extent of the injuries, but for now, the private hospital room is peaceful. The doctors and guards have allowed Castiel entry in this brief moment of quiet, but it feels so wrong to be sitting by Dean’s bedside instead of dancing with him to the throbbing beat of club music.

Dean had been so alive in those moments; now, pale and mottled with bruising, dressed in a plain white gown, he looks dead.

And that terrifies Cas.

He’s not quite sure what to do with this information. When had he gotten so attached to Dean that the simple news of his attack had sparked rage and fear in Castiel’s chest the likes of which he’s never experienced?

These aren’t thoughts that he can’t – or won’t – contemplate right now, though. There are more pressing matters at hand. Dean’s injuries, his health, his recovery. They’re all more important than whatever rebellion Castiel’s emotions are trying to lead. And there’s also the matter of retribution. If Michael asks him to hunt down the remainder of the men who hurt Dean, he will gladly do it.

If Michael doesn’t ask, Castiel will simply have to take matters into his own hands.

That can wait, though. The men who escaped will not be able to evade Castiel when he comes after them, and the only incentive to chase them right now is the burning fire of his own fury. For now, he will stay with Dean. He has no other obligations, no matters more pressing to attend to, and so he can stay by Dean’s bedside until he wakes. The guards Michael has stationed outside the door will not attempt to remove him – if anything, Dean is safer with Castiel present – and he doubts that the doctors will protest unless he hinders them in any way, intentional or not.

That doesn’t make it easy to stand idly by and watch as doctors and nurses come and go, running tests and wheeling Dean out for MRIs and x-rays and god knows what. Dean is receiving the very best care, courtesy of Michael’s own accounts, but it means that the medical professionals assigned to him are nothing if not thorough.

The first time Dean’s bed is wheeled out of his hospital room, Castiel tries to follow, but is stopped by the doctor in charge of Dean’s treatment. Medical personnel only – Dean’s situation is delicate, and they’re being paid well to give him the best care. They’re not going to have a civilian following them around and getting in the way.

Despite the fact that Castiel could figure out over a hundred ways to subdue the man only using instruments in their immediate vicinity, he defers to the doctor’s expertise and returns to the single chair in the now-empty hospital room.

When Dean returns, he’s no less pale and broken, but at least they know that there’s minimal swelling to his brain. With any luck, they’ll be able to bring him out of his induced coma sometime in the next day.

Until then, Castiel waits.

He passes his time with books and television and crosswords, and sometimes even meditates in the corner of the room during peaceful breaks when it’s just the two of them. He’s a constant presence by Dean’s side, though he stays silent, and the medical team mostly ignores him. A few of the nurses try to initiate conversation, asking about him and how he knows Dean, but considering the circumstances, Castiel isn’t really willing to indulge their desire for small talk.

For the next two days, Castiel doesn’t leave the hospital apart from forays out for food or cleans clothes and a shower. Even then, he makes those trips quick; every second he’s away from the hospital is a second that Dean is left slightly less protected, a second where he could wake up, and Castiel wouldn’t be there. Most of the time, he can be found in the armchair beside Dean’s bed, either relaxing with a book or asleep with the chair tipped back into reclining mode and a blanket pulled haphazardly over himself.

It’s only a matter of waiting for Dean to wake up from his coma, which will happen when he’s ready, when his body is far enough along the road to healing itself that it doesn’t need to keep any extraneous systems shut down.

That moment happens in the middle of the night.

Castiel isn’t sure why he wakes; the room is dark, or as close as it can get with the dim but ever-present glow of the emergency lights. By his calculations, it’s about four in the morning.

Glancing over at Dean to check that he’s okay is a force of habit. Castiel isn’t expecting anything to be different.

There’s an extra layer to the quiet beeping of the machines, and Dean’s green eyes catch the light as he blinks, slowly.

Castiel goes from half-awake to completely awake and aware in the space of a half-second.

“Dean!” he blurts out, sitting up straight and nearly tumbling right off the armchair when the blanket he was sleeping beneath tangles itself around him.

Dean blinks again, but this time, despite the drugs and the haziness of the coma he’s just coming out of, the corner of his eyes seem to be just a little more crinkled.

And then he fully realizes where he is, as he becomes a little more lucid, and the hazy amusement in his eyes becomes confusion and fear and panic.

As much as Castiel wants Dean’s first waking moments to be with just the two of them, he doesn’t hesitate in rising from his chair and slamming his hand against the red button on the wall.

Within seconds, the room is flooded with light and sound and movement as two nurses run into the room, followed by a white-coated doctor. They gently restrain Dean against the bed, trying to soothe and calm him as he struggles against the tubes and wires. It quickly becomes clear that the only option is to sedate Dean again; a new nurse injects a syringe of morphine into his IV, and before long, he’s relaxing back against the bed, his limbs loose and heavy, eyes half-lidded before they close completely.

Seeing Dean like this makes Castiel feel sick to his stomach. It’s so _wrong_.

What’s even worse, though, is that he’s ushered out of the room not long after Dean’s sedation – the doctors need to run more tests and check on his vitals, and in case Castiel was the one who caused his panic, they don’t want him in there the next time he wakes up.

There’s no point in explaining how Dean’s brain works, how upon finding himself in an unfamiliar situation, with a glaring hole in his memory, his mind immediately kicked into fight-or-flight mode. Castiel knows, because his brain works exactly the same way, but the doctors would never understand.

If he wants them to let him back into Dean’s room at any point, he can’t argue with them (or threaten them, as much as he thinks that would allow him his way). So Castiel just has to wait.

It’s hours before he’s called back into Dean’s room, hours spent pacing like a caged animal, wanting to be allowed back inside to make sure that Dean really _is_ okay, to stand guard over him and eventually get Dean to tell him about his attackers so that he can go after them.

When he’s finally allowed back inside, Dean looks just as battered and broken, but this time his eyes are open. Despite the pain that moving his head must cause, he has his cheek pressed against the pillow, his head turn sideways so that he can watch the sun crest over the trees of the hospital garden.

The light highlights the bruising on his face, the black eye and the split lip and the dark mottling over his jaw and cheekbone, but it also illuminates those tired green eyes in such a way that they seem to blaze with an inner brilliance.

It strikes Castiel, in that moment, that this is the first time he’s seen Dean’s eyes up close and in the sunlight. The full force of his relief hits him like a bullet in the chest, knocking the breath out of him, and he makes a soft, involuntary sound in the doorway.

Dean is alive. Castiel could have lost him, but he didn’t.

The sound catches Dean’s attention. The muscles in his jaw clench as he turns his head back towards the doorway, but any traces of pain or discomfort disappear when he sees Castiel standing there. He grins, slowly and carefully so as not to aggravate his busted lip, but it’s vibrant and _real_.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he rasps teasingly, as if he isn’t the one who looks like shit right now, having been beaten black and blue. “I wasn’t sure if you’d really been here, or if I’d just dreamed it.”

Despite the situation, Castiel smiles, closing the door behind himself and making his way over to Dean’s bedside. He retakes his rightful place in the armchair where, for the past few hours, a nurse has been watching over Dean. Now, though, it’s just the two of them. “Do you dream about me often?” he teases back – this is what they do, this back and forth. It’s what they’re used to. “The sexy kind, I hope.”

Dean laughs, and god does that sound do giddy things to Castiel’s insides, but the laughter is immediately cut off by a low groan of pain, and Dean has to close his eyes for a second. Of course, his ribs. Guilt washes over Castiel – he has to be more careful with Dean right now. He’s used to the man being bright and unbreakable, and this is an unpleasant reminder that he’s… not.

Dean waves his good hand – his knuckles bandaged – when he sees the dismay on Castiel’s face. “Relax, dude. It’s fine. I’ve had worse.” He pauses to think, wrinkling his nose slightly, then smiles tiredly. “Actually, no. This might be the worst I’ve had. Certainly feels like it. How long was I out?”

That’s a question that Castiel doesn’t really have an answer to. He’d arrived at the hospital not long after he’d stormed into Michael’s office, but Dean had already been there for over a day, maybe two, if his theory is correct and Dean’s attack had been the urgent matter that Michael had been dealing with at their meeting. As such, he’s not actually sure how long Dean was unconscious for.

“I’m not sure,” he says, a little helplessly. He hates this whole situation. It’s Dean’s job to put himself in dangerous, high-risk situations, he knows that. But somehow, that knowledge hadn’t really hit him until now.

And when did he get so attached to Dean that he wants to protect him from harm, keep him from ever going back out into the field where someone could attack him again, or worse?

“Hey, it’s alright,” Dean tells him, and his voice, though still scratchy, is softer. Can he see how much Castiel is freaking out right now? He tries to school his features – it’s so easy to let his guard down around Dean. “I can ask the doctor when he comes back to have a proper talk. He said he wanted to let you in to see me first, though.” The smile becomes a grin. “He seemed worried that you’d bite his head off if he kept you out any longer. Which is funny. It’s not like you’re actually dangerous, right?”

For all that Dean can be endearing, and has the ability to worm his way past Castiel’s defences, he’s also fucking insufferable. Castiel gives him a _look_ , and Dean laughs again, though this time it’s more like a chuckle, and it still makes him wince. He must still be sore, even despite the drugs. “Do you want me to get the doctor?” Castiel asks.

Dean hesitates for a second, then relents. “Might be a good idea, yeah. Don’t you go anywhere, though. We’ve gotta have a chat, you and I.”

He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but even though he wants to clarify, Dean is in pain, and that ranks higher than his own idle curiosity.

Castiel rises from the armchair, and resists the urge to bend down and press a kiss to the top of Dean’s head. Instead, he gives the man a small smile, and turns on his heel to fetch the doctor.

The man is easily located, standing in the hallway with his phone sandwiched between his ear and his shoulder as he scribbles notes on a clipboard. The conversation he’s having seems somewhat one-sided, as he often only mumbles “mmhm” and “okay,” with the odd medical-related question thrown in. Castiel doesn’t pay much attention, quickly determining that there’s not much useful information he can glean from eavesdropping, and only has to wait half a minute before the doctor is tucking his pen away and retrieving the phone to end the call.

“Can I help you?” he asks as he double-checks something on the clipboard, then tucks it under his arm and lifts his gaze to meet Castiel’s. He’s young and reasonably good-looking, with his hazel eyes and his close-cropped dark hair. Would he be the kind of person Dean is interested in?

Castiel forces down the kernel of unfounded jealousy and nods, perhaps a little more stiffly than he’d intended. “Dean is in pain. I figured you should talk to him, now that he’s awake.”

The doctor gives him a quick smile. “Of course. I would have spoken with him sooner, but I figured I wouldn’t keep you from your boyfriend any longer than I had already.”

_Boyfriend?_

The doctor thinks he’s Dean’s boyfriend.

The real nature of their relationship is far from boyfriend status, but when Castiel opens his mouth to correct the doctor, no words come out. The man is already moving past him and through the open door of Dean’s room, anyway. Castiel frowns to himself, unsure of how to process these new developments, but follows him back into the room anyway.

The armchair is still empty, the young doctor standing by Dean’s bedside as he checks the machines Dean is hooked up to and makes genial small talk, but with the knowledge that the doctor thinks they’re boyfriends, he doesn’t feel quite like retaking his post. Instead, he stays by the door, arms folded across his chest as he looks out through the bulletproof glass window and keeps one ear on the conversation.

Most of it is medical talk, discussing Dean’s injuries and pain and medication. Castiel keeps tabs on it all, because it’s useful information to have filed away, but overall it doesn’t hold his attention. Hearing Dean’s injuries listed all over again bothers him, even if Dean seems to be taking it all in his stride.

Dean didn’t have to see himself unconscious and looking half-dead in the hospital bed.

The conversation doesn’t take long, though, and Castiel tunes back in properly when it seems like the doctor is wrapping things up. “I’ve upped your painkillers a little, but don’t hesitate to call if there’s something you need, or the pain is getting bad again, okay? I’m sure you’ll be fine, though. And you’ve got a good man here keeping you company.”

He flashes a smile in Castiel’s direction, and Dean’s gaze follows, his eyes light and mirthful. “Yeah, he’s alright,” he agrees with a grin. Castiel has the faintest feeling that he’s being conspired against.

The doctor doesn’t stay for much longer, only exchanging a few more words with Dean that Castiel tries not to pay attention to before he leaves. “I had to increase his painkillers,” he tells Castiel on his way past. “He might be a little out of it for a while.”

Although Castiel wants to talk to Dean, wants to find out what happened and who the men were who attacked him, Dean’s health and comfort come first. If the doctor thinks that Dean needs more painkillers, then Castiel will keep him company during their effect. He can be patient, after all. He nods in response, watches the doctor go, then pulls the door closed.

It’s not that he doesn’t like other people being around Dean. But he prefers it better when it’s just the two of them, when they can simply… coexist.

The drugs must already be kicking in; when Castiel draws nearer to the bed, Dean blinks up at him, then grins, slow and goofy. “Never seen you in the sun before.” He narrows his eyes a little, then says, “step close?”

Castiel’s breath catches in his throat slightly. He does.

Dean’s grin widens.

“I like seein’ you in the sunlight. Looks like you’ve got a…” He waves his good hand in a vague circular motion, then he snickers to himself. “A halo! That one. Fitting, for the Angel.”

Castiel can’t help but smile, though his chest twinges with something akin to disappointment. He doesn’t study it too closely. “Very fitting,” he agrees, moving back to his armchair to take a seat. “How are you feeling?”

The question makes Dean pause, and Castiel can practically see the gears working in his mind, slowed and hindered by the dampening effects of the painkillers. “Fuzzy,” he says eventually, his brows creased into a tiny frown. Castiel wants to kiss it away. “And tired. I think that’s the drugs. Sleep sounds good. Not the sexy kind, though.” He waggles his eyebrows in a way that is not as sexy as Castiel believes he had hoped it to be, then winks.

It’s more cute than sexual, and Castiel has to hide a fond smile.

“Yes, the sexy kind of sleeping will have to wait. For now, just rest.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Dean mutters under his breath. Despite the way his eyes droop, his gaze never wavers from Castiel’s face, all the way up until his eyes close completely and the machines monitoring him fall into the steady beeping rhythm indicative of sleep.

He’s beautiful, asleep and serene and bathed in sunlight. He would look even better healthy and healed and stretched out in Castiel’s bed, sated and content.

But that’s a dangerous path to go down. He has no idea if Dean feels even a fraction of… whatever it is Castiel is feeling.

So he diverts his thoughts. His brain helpfully reminds him that he’s been awake since four in the morning, and that while he may be able to stay awake in high-pressure situations, this is decidedly not. His brain has a very good point. Still, he forces himself to stay awake for a few more minutes, simply watching the shallow rise and fall of Dean’s chest, before he leans back against the armchair and allows himself to succumb to sleep.

~ 

Michael is in Dean’s hospital room when Cas wakes up.

For a few seconds, Castiel frowns blearily as he tries to place the sharp eyes and neat, dark hair amongst the small army of doctors and nurse who have been attending to Dean. The moment his brain catches up with his eyes, he bolts upright in the chair – being unkempt and dead asleep in an armchair is not a good look in front of one’s boss.

Dean and Michael pause in their quiet conversation to look at him, Michael raising one eyebrow coolly while Dean huffs out a laugh. There’s a tenseness to the man, though. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and his fingers grip the hospital blanket a little too tightly. It could be because sitting up, even with his back supported like it is, is causing him pain, but Castiel doesn’t think that’s it.

“Convenient timing, Castiel,” Michael says dryly, interlacing his fingers and resting them on his crossed knees. He’s still impeccably dressed, especially compared to the old t-shirt and jeans that Castiel has been wearing for over a day now. “How nice of you to join us.”

Castiel tries to make himself a little more presentable, subtly patting down his hair and smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt, but there’s only so much he can do, and he gives up when Dean rolls his eyes. “Cas, I’m wearing a hospital gown and look like seventeen kinds of shit, stop being so prissy.”

He has a point.

Michael looks between the two of them with a calculating eye but doesn’t comment, instead clearing his throat. “We were just discussing the details of Dean’s attack. I believe that we have enough information to be able to find them.” He smiles coldly. “I have faith in your skills, and I’m trusting you to respond as you see fit.”

“Of course.” Castiel inclines his head, and Michael’s smile grows a little warmer, a little less calculating and vengeful. “In that case, I have other important matters to attend to. Castiel, I’ll put together the information you’ll need, and when you receive it, I’d like you to act on it immediately.”

His gaze turns to Dean – battered, brave Dean who still grins cheekily, even with a busted lip. “And you, Dean, are to stay in that fucking bed and do what your doctors tell you. I don’t need you out of action for longer than you already will be.”

Castiel snorts in amusement at the mock-offended look on Dean’s face, and he catches a slight twitch of Michael’s lips as he stands and exits the hospital room.

“I’d totally be busting out of here if my room was on the ground floor and not surrounded by guards,” Dean points out in the ensuing silence, and Castiel can’t help but smile. “I don’t doubt it in the slightest. Neither does Michael, which is probably why he put you in this specific room and ordered you to stay put.” Like that would keep Dean here, but it’s a strong deterrent, and his injuries even more so.

Still, Dean huffs and leans back against the upright part of his bed, muttering something under his breath that Castiel isn’t sure he wants to know.

“How are you feeling?” he asks instead, stretching his arms up above his head to work out the kinks in his back that have developed from sleeping in an armchair.

Dean gives him a look that tells him that was a stupid question, and Castiel rolls his eyes before amending it. “Are you feeling _better_?”

“A little, yeah,” Dean admits, fiddling with the sling keeping his arm immobilized. “God, it’s fucking boring here, though. I can only watch TV or listen to the radio for so long while your lazy ass is asleep. I’m relying on you to keep me entertained here.”

That, Castiel can do.

The entirety of their relationship up until now may have been based purely on sex, but for the first time since he met Dean, the two of them just.. talk. They talk about anything and everything, from mindless to deep topics, but never once bringing up whatever it is between them, or why Castiel has stayed by Dean’s side throughout this whole ordeal.

By the end, when Dean’s injuries begin to catch up to him again and the new dosage of morphine gradually pulls him back under, Castiel thinks that they may have solidified the ‘friends’ part of ‘friends with benefits’.

As much as he wants to stay here, though, he can’t. So when his phone buzzes with an email alert from Michael, he spends a few minutes just watching Dean sleep peacefully, but eventually stands.

This time, he can’t resist the urge to press a kiss against Dean’s forehead before he straightens his shoulders and leaves the hospital room, quietly closing the door behind him.

He has a job to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: since I couldn't rework this into the third chapter, I'm leaving this chapter 2 deleted/rewritten scene here. It's not canon, but it's really soft and I love it. Unfortunately I couldn't use it, because it didn't fit the tone of the place I wanted to use it at, but. Here you go.
> 
>  
> 
> The next time he wakes, the shadows in the room are considerably longer, and the chords of a guitar emanate quietly from a radio on the other side of Dean’s bed. He’s sitting up now, one arm in a sling and the covers pooled around his waist. Dean looks far more lucid than he had earlier – while he’s likely still on painkillers, Castiel hopes that they’ve been reduced, and that they will be able to have a proper conversation. The icepacks strapped to Dean’s side must be helping with the pain of his ribs, since he seems to be breathing easier.
> 
> Castiel shifts and lifts a hand to rub at his eyes. The movement must catch Dean’s attention, because his eyes focus from where they were gazing out into space, lost in thought, and he turns his gaze towards Castiel. His eyes crinkle in a smile. “I was beginning to worry they’d drugged you too, with how long you were asleep for,” he jokes, his voice quiet. 
> 
> A man’s voice croons in the background.
> 
> “I must’ve needed it,” Castiel admits, running one hand through his hair to try and fix the slightly-flattened strands. The corner of Dean’s mouth ticks up in amusement, but there’s something deeper and more unreadable in his eyes.
> 
> The silence between them stretches out, longer than the tawny-gold light and the blue shadows.
> 
> “Why are you here?” Dean finally asks. He reaches out to turn the radio off. “The nurses said you’d been here for a couple of days, now. While I was asleep.” His gaze drops to his good hand, resting on the covers. When it lifts again, Dean’s eyes are framed by long, dark lashes, uncharacteristically vulnerable. He looks so young. “I didn’t think you would’ve cared that much. That it was just…”
> 
> He trails off.
> 
> Castiel resists the urge to fidget, no matter how much he wants to. Instead, he stays calm and still and tries to shape his half-formed, half-accepted thoughts into words. He’s never been good at expressing himself like this.
> 
> “I was worried about you,” he settles on eventually, because it’s true. “I didn’t want to lose you, and you were safer here if I stayed…” I didn’t want to leave, he thinks, but he can’t say that.
> 
> There is something he has to say, though.
> 
> “I stayed because I care about you.”
> 
> He’s not sure how deeply, or in what context – or perhaps he is, and he just can’t admit it yet. The life of an assassin is a solitary one, and he’s had his walls up for so many years…
> 
> Castiel can’t pinpoint the emotions in Dean’s green eyes, and suddenly, he doesn’t want to know how Dean feels. He’s already admitted more than he’s comfortable with, and he doesn’t want this talk to continue, not here, not now.
> 
> Dean opens his mouth to speak, but Castiel cuts him off, lips lifting into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
> 
> “Besides, someone has to be here to keep you breaking out of hospital and going after those men,” he teases. Dean huffs out a laugh, and the moment passes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the final chapter! I have to say, I love this little verse and these two idiots, and I've really enjoyed writing this fic. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Cas has been gone for six days – not that Dean’s been counting.

Without him, it’s too quiet. He chats with the nurses a little, watches TV and plays games on his phone and reads the books that he begged one of the redheaded nurses to bring in for him. It’s not like he has anyone else to bring him stuff and keep him company in hospital. Not now that Cas is gone.

He’s not even really sure why Cas was there in the first place.

Well. He’s smart. He might have an inkling.

Without Cas around, though, his existence is fucking boring. Dean is used to some level of excitement in his life, or at least used to having the capacity to go out and do whatever the hell he wants. Now, he’s been confined to his hospital room, apparently under Michael’s orders. Whenever he goes for short walks – or is pushed around in his wheelchair for the first couple days – the guards Michael assigned to him always follow at a distance. Whether it’s to protect Dean, or to keep him from attempting a prison break, he’s really not sure.

Dean would try to get out sooner, but his doctors are right – right now, he needs to stay put and rest until he’s healed a little more. His list of injuries is nothing to be sneezed at, and the best place for him to be is here.

Or so he keeps telling himself.

On the seventh day, when one of the more uptight nurses tries to keep him from going for his walk (really, a slow hobble, Dean knows his limits), he decides that he’s had enough.

He may not have any clothes or any of his personal belongings here – hell, even his phone was broken in the fight – but that doesn’t stop him from giving his guards and nurses the slip and walking his hospital gown-clad ass to the front desk to be released.

“What the fuck do you mean?” Dean exclaims, going to throw his hands up in the air before he remembers his previously-dislocated shoulder and all the muscles around his ribs that ache whenever he does so much as breathe. Perhaps not.

The nurse at the front desk pinches the bridge of his nose and takes another look at his computer. “Mr Winchester, there’s ethically no way we can release you. You were very badly injured in your altercation—“ Dean snorts, and the nurse glares at him for a second, “—but even if you weren’t still so injured, the fact remains that you have no emergency contact listed on your documents, and we can’t discharge you if we don’t know that there’s someone helping you out. Your care is being fully paid for here, I suggest you make the most of it and heal.”

Dean considers a few options, in that moment.

The first option is to call Sam, but his brother lives on the other side of the damn country, not to mention how busy he is all the time. There’s no way he could – or _would_ – drop everything just to come and babysit Dean.

The second option – and the most tempting, considering the way it bypasses any kind of legality or paperwork – is to tell the nurse to stick his suggestions where the sun don’t shine and waltz on outta here. What would he do once he escaped, though? He has no money, no phone, and his ass is a gentle breeze away from being exposed to the entirety of the outside world.

So that’s not really a viable option.

And the third… well, Cas could be fucking anywhere right now.

The fight threatens to drain out of Dean – he may really just have to sit tight until he’s allowed to go home, and Michael arranges to have him released.

Still, the nurse is pissing him off, and he needs an outlet for all the pent-up frustration that’s been bottled up inside him…

He’s barely drawn breath before there’s a voice behind him, and it stops Dean completely in his tracks.

“I’ll take him home. Release him into my care, and I’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

The nurse pulls a face like he doesn’t believe that’s possible, but Dean is already turning towards the voice, and he doesn’t see.

Cas looks tired. The bags under his eyes are darker than normal, and his hair looks messy, as though he’s forgotten to brush it, or has only given it a cursory comb with his fingers. There’s a fatigued slump to his shoulders that makes Dean tired just looking at him, but when Dean meets Castiel’s gaze, his blue eyes are just as soft and as bright as he’d remembered.

“Cas,” he mumbles – that’s about all he can manage right now. The corner of Castiel’s mouth quirks up in a crooked smile, and he nods his head. “That would be me, yes. How are you feeling?”

“Like I got beat up by several guys a lot bigger than me,” Dean quips, winking with the eye that isn’t darkened by a bruise.

Castiel’s eyes go dark for a second, and his eyebrows pinch together. The expression only lasts for a second, though, and then it’s gone. But Dean doesn’t miss a single detail of anything – especially not when it’s Cas.

“But you’re feeling better, right?” he asks, and Dean lets it go, but he doesn’t forget. “Yeah, I’m feeling better. Comparatively, at least. ‘Better’ still feels pretty damn shitty.”

Cas’s gaze flits over his face and arms, the bruises still fading on his skin. That’s only what’s _visible_ , too – the broken ribs and internal bruising hurt a hell of a lot more, and the shoulder that was dislocated is still stiff. But he’s alive, and that’s honestly more than he was expecting when he found himself cornered by those thugs.

The silence between them stretches out as Cas simply looks at him, and Dean shifts his weight from foot to foot. After a few more seconds, he clears his throat. Cas’s gaze snaps up, his blue eyes wide, and then he turns to the nurse.

“Discharge Dean. He will be coming home with me, to my house.”

“What?” Dean splutters, taking a quick step closer which he regrets when the room tilts a little. “Cas, I don’t need to be babysat, I’ll be fine.” Unless… he leans closer and gives the nurse a wary look as his lips brush the shell of Castiel’s ear. “Is this a ‘wink wink’ situation and you’re gonna take me back to my house?” he asks quietly, pitching his voice so that the nurse can’t overhear.

Cas’s breath hitches when Dean’s lips graze his skin, but he still leans back and gives Dean an unimpressed look. “No, Dean, this is not a ‘wink wink’ situation. You are coming home to my house, where I can help you look after yourself so that you don’t go crazy and endanger yourself in an attempt at a grand hospital escape.”

Damn. Most of their meetings may have been purely for sex, but apparently Cas knows him pretty damn well. He shifts guiltily, and Castiel’s expression softens into a smile. “The doctors will need to run some tests to make sure you’re really okay to be discharged, though I expect they’ll be a little more lenient in this situation. This is your only option of getting out, so I recommend that you head back to your room and let them check you out.”

There’s a proper smile on Cas’s face now, as though he knows all the rebellious thoughts that Dean is thinking in the privacy of his own head. He’s right, though, which is what frustrates Dean the most. They won’t let him out of here without Cas, and Cas isn’t just going to let him go home by himself.

At least this might be his opportunity to finally level the playing ground and see Cas’s house for the first time. It’s that thought that ultimately seals the deal, though he still shoots Cas a glare for being _bossy_ before he leaves.

Cas handles the discharge paperwork while Dean dutifully walks himself back to his hospital room and the not-so-watchful eyes of his guards who only realize that Dean had given them the slip when he comes wandering back around the corner. He can’t help but smirk and wink as he passes them. “Michael needs to train you boys better,” he drawls as he pushes open the door to his private room.

Usually, having the doctors poke and prod at him tests Dean’s patience, since they insist on being so damn _thorough_ with everything and it takes forever, but this time he can bear it. He’s getting out – what’s an extra half hour of tests if it means he gets some damn freedom?

Cas appears in his room just as the doctors are wrapping up their testing, a backpack tucked under one arm. He just watches silently from where he stands in the corner of the room. For anyone else, it would be kinda weird, but it’s surprisingly not all that strange for Cas. When Dean gives him a small smile as the doctors palpate the area across his ribcage, the corners of Cas’s mouth lift in a matching smile.

Eventually, they deem him fit for release – albeit reluctantly, but they know that arguing will get them nowhere, and they’re probably eager to get rid of such a stubborn patient. His head doctor signs the release papers, and the room is quick to empty, until it’s just him and Cas.

“I brought you some clothes,” Cas says as he pushes off the wall he’s been leaning against. “I figured you wouldn’t want to leave in the hospital gown.” The small smile widens, and he sets the backpack down on the bed next to Dean. “I, uh. I could’ve gotten into your house, but that felt like a step too far, so… I brought you some of my own clothes, instead. I hope that’s okay.”

Dean raises his eyebrows at the way Cas’s gaze slides away, as though he’s… unsure. It’s a strange look on the assassin who’s normally so confident and sure of himself. “So you’re fine with sneaking onto my property to leave notes, but actually going _into_ my house is a different story? Well, at least I know you draw the line somewhere,” he teases.

Cas’s cheeks colour in a faint blush, but he shoots a playful glare Dean’s way. “Those letters were a necessity. What, was I just going to get your number and _call_ you? How mundane.” Cas grins, then gestures at the backpack. “Just get dressed so that we can go.”

“Aye, aye, cap’n,” Dean mutters under his breath with a grin, and he swings his legs over the edge of the bed so that he can stand. The hospital gown, bunched around his waist so that the doctors could examine the bruising across his chest and check his broken ribs, pools on the ground by his feet, and he hears Castiel inhale sharply.

The bruising is still pretty intense, and he’s definitely paler and has a little less muscle definition from being cooped up in a hospital room for over a week, but he likes to think he still looks okay. Dean shoots Cas a wink, and he immediately clears his throat and looks away, shifting surreptitiously.

“At least keep it in your pants until we get back to your house, Cas,” Dean teases as he reaches for the backpack and pulls out his change of clothes. Cas just frowns. “Dean, you’re injured. I highly doubt that we can partake in our… regular activities.”

He’s such an odd man, but Dean likes him anyway. “We’ll see about that,” he mutters, carefully pulling on the boxers. Luckily, they’re roughly the same size, and Cas seems to have chosen old, loose clothing. The soft, worn jeans and threadbare t-shirt smell faintly like Cas, and Dean barely manages to resist burying his nose in the soft material. He pulls a face at the worn sneakers that Cas provided, but pulls them on anyway, then holds his hands out and grins. “How do I look?”

Cas rolls his eyes, though there’s definitely a hint of fondness in the expression. “You look fantastic, Dean,” he replies, grabbing the now-empty backpack and tucking it back under his arm. “Ready to go?”

It’s not even a question. “Absolutely,” Dean replies.

The guards glare at him as they leave, but at least some of the nurses seem sad to see him go. The nurse at the front desk still looks surly, but his expression softens slightly when he sees Dean and Cas head toward the front exit together. Dean raises an eyebrow, and turns to Cas.

“How did you get him to agree to discharge me?” he asks, wincing as the doors slide open and the temperature drops several degrees. Cas looks like he’s two seconds away from taking off his own shirt if it would provide Dean with some extra warmth, but Dean waves him away when he opens his mouth. “Relax, I’m fine.”

Cas doesn’t look convinced, but he returns his attention to Dean’s previous question, and stops meeting Dean’s gaze. Well, that’s not suspicious at all. For an assassin, he should really be better at lying. “Cas?” he prods.

All he gets in response is an unintelligible answer, muttered under Castiel’s breath. Dean pokes at his bicep as they walk. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I _said_ ,” Cas grumbles, louder this time, “they may have thought that I was your boyfriend, and that was why they let you leave with me.”

Oh.

Dean pauses for a second, processing this information. _Interesting._

“That’s some clever thinking,” Dean says, and if anything, Castiel’s cheek grow more red.

“My car’s over here,” Cas mutters, and his hand finds its way to the small of Dean’s back as he guides him over to the Continental sitting in the corner of the parking lot. It successfully derails the many thoughts tangling themselves up inside Dean’s brain right now, because Cas is an _assassin_ employed by a _mob boss_ , and yet he’s driving this piece of crap.

He spends the first part of the drive back to Cas’s house complaining about the car and quite possibly making Cas regret ever even suggesting to take Dean home with him. As they seem to get closer, though, the car turning into a quiet suburban area, Dean shuts up and spends his time looking out the window. When they pull up in front of a small, insignificant-looking house on the edge of the suburban area, Dean turns to Cas with wide eyes.

The fucker just grins.

All the time that Dean has spent wondering where Cas lives, what kind of elaborate security systems he’d have set up… he’d been picturing a remote villa on a mountaintop, guarded by CCTV and chain-link fences – not a quaint little house in suburbia. From the look on Cas’s face, he knows that.

“Trust me, the security level on this property is probably just as high as yours, if not higher,” Cas tells him – which doesn’t surprise Dean.

But Cas has _flowerbushes_ in the front yard.

He’s also an _assassin_.

Dean just can’t wrap his head around it.

“What the fuck?” he says out loud, under his breath. Cas must hear it, because he chuckles as he kills the engine and climbs out of the car. Before Dean can react, he’s opening the passenger door like a gentleman, and offers Dean his hand to help him out of the car.

And if Dean takes it, well, it doesn’t make him weak. He’s just tired, damn it, and Cas’s palm feels nice against his own. It helps to soothe the ache of his ribs – maybe a nap wouldn’t go astray.

“Thanks,” he tells Cas as he climbs out of the car, and is rewarded with a radiant smile. Even once he’s standing, Cas hovers nearby, as though he can’t even climb the front steps without hurting himself. It should be annoying, but it’s actually kind of… endearing.

“I’ve gotta admit,” Dean says, watching Castiel key in a long, complicated password by the front door, then press his hand against the square beside the keypad, “I wasn’t really expecting this. The security and the camera, yeah, but not the… the quaint little cottage in suburbia.”

Castiel doesn’t look at him, but Dean sees the corner of his mouth tick up into a smile as the door’s locking mechanism clicks open. “Did you think I lived in some cold, remote place, with only my weapons to keep me company?” he asks, and Dean feels his cheeks heat. It might’ve been something like that, yeah, and Cas knows it. “It’s better to hide in plain sight,” he elaborates as he pushes open the front door. “My neighbours don’t have a clue as to what I do for work.”

It makes sense, really. Dean mulls it all over in his head as he follows Cas inside, taking the chance to look around as Cas gives further voice identification to disarm the alarm. The inside is just as normal as the outside – nicely decorated, and homely, if a little sparse on personal photos. Dean knows the feeling; the only personal photos he has are _old_ , and they’re kept safely in his bedroom.

Cas finishes going through his security procedure, and finally turns back to Dean. The expression on his face looks almost shy, lips curled up into a crooked little half-smile, eyes big and earnest. Dean can’t help but grin. “Man, that security ritual must make going to the shops to get milk a whole thing, huh?”

His teasing makes Cas laugh, and it kindles this weird warmth in Dean’s stomach that isn’t entirely unpleasant. “You’re not wrong,” Cas admits, and any worry that Dean had about whatever it is between them feeling weird outside of club hook-ups or the hospital dissipates. “Would you like a tour?” Castiel offers, and Dean nods.

Cas’s house isn’t big, not like Dean’s, but it definitely feels… warmer. Dean is shown every room but the basement – that door is even more heavily guarded, and Dean will take ‘assassin weapons’ for twenty, Alex. Cas doesn’t draw attention to it, and Dean doesn’t ask, but they both know. Have known ever since they started this… whatever it is.

It doesn’t change anything. Cas is both a ruthless assassin and the owner of a small suburban house with flowerbushes in the front garden, and while the two may be a little difficult for Dean to reconcile right now, neither one of them troubles him in any way.

When they reach the bedroom, and Dean sees the huge, beautiful bed standing in the centre of the far wall, all his exhaustion hits him at once. He hasn’t been up and about for this long since before the attack, and he sways a little on his feet as his whole body protests.

Instantly, Cas is by his side, one hand on his elbow and the other on the small of his back. “Dean?” The concern in his voice isn’t subtle in the slightest. “Are you okay?”

 _Is_ he okay? He feels okay, despite the fact that his ribs ache and there’s a feeling of weariness settled deep in his bones. Well, physically, at least.

He can’t really shake the notion that something has changed. Before, he and Cas were just hooking up, just friends with benefits. Barely even friends, really.

And now he knows that Cas spent days by his bedside while he recovered, and then disappeared for a longer amount of time doing who-knows-what, and now they’re… here. Cas’s house.

Dean had always wanted to find out where Cas lived, but only to reorient the power imbalance between them.

He’d never thought it would be like this.

The furrow between Cas’s eyebrows deepens, and Dean realizes that he hasn’t responded yet. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he mumbles, smiling weakly. “Just tired. And sore.”

Cas’s hand rubs in small circles against Dean’s lower back, and it feels so good that he might just melt into the floor. His lashes flutter for a second, half-closed, but he blinks when Castiel speaks. “Would you like to sleep?”

And yeah, that’s probably not a bad idea. He nods and knuckles at his eyes with one hand. “Yeah.”

“You’re welcome to my bed,” Cas tells him, stepping away to pull back the carefully straightened covers and leaving the small of Dean’s back cold. “I can sleep on the couch tonight. I’m sorry I don’t have another bed – I wasn’t anticipating guests when I bought this house, and…”

Dean cuts Cas off with a quick kiss. Just to shut him up and stop his rambling. Nothing more. “Relax, Cas,” he says with a smile. Cas’s eyes have gone wide. “We can share a bed. It’s not like I haven’t had your dick in my ass before.”

The sparking heat that Dean is accustomed to seeing in Castiel’s eyes returns, and his gaze sweeps down almost without thinking before he reins it back in. “I suppose you’re right,” he murmurs thoughtfully. His fingers twitch by his sides, and the corner of his mouth curls up into a smile that Dean can’t quite decipher. “Still,” Cas continues, “I will leave you to sleep for now, and I can cook dinner. Does that sound okay?”

It sounds entirely too domestic, but also like a wonderful idea. Against his better judgement, Dean nods, and Castiel’s smile becomes bright and real. “Okay,” he says, stepping closer to Dean. “Sleep well, and I’ll wake you when dinner is ready.”

And before Dean can react, he’s brushing past, pressing a quick kiss to Dean’s temple as he does so. It’s as though Cas hadn’t even really thought about it, and he’s gone before Dean has even had time to process what just happened.

He’d kissed Cas first – but it had been to shut him up. Only that. Relationships are a liability in their line of work.

Dean scrubs a hand through his hair, then tries to push it to the back of his mind. He shucks his jeans (Cas’s, really) and climbs beneath the sheets. They’re soft, and they smell like Cas, and even though Dean tells himself that there’s nothing serious between them, it’s a while before sleep takes him.

~ 

By the time Dean wakes, he feels much more clear-headed, but the room is considerably darker. He can just make out the shapes of the furniture, but that proves to be enough as he climbs carefully and groggily from the bed. It takes a few tries for him to pick the right drawer in the dresser near Cas’s bed, but Dean’s fingers brush over thick, soft fabric, and he pulls out a pair of comfy, worn sweatpants. They’re a little short on him, but they’ll do, and now that he’s properly clothed, Dean follows his nose out of the bedroom.

Whatever Cas is making smells pretty damn good. Dean hasn’t eaten since his measly hospital breakfast and the packet of chips that one of the nurses snuck him, so by this point in the day, he’s pretty damn hungry.

Cas has his back to Dean. He’s changed out of what he was wearing earlier – now he’s dressed similarly to Dean, in a pair of navy sweatpants and a grey t-shirt that’s loose but tight enough to hug the muscles of his shoulders and upper arms.

It’s a nice sight, there’s no doubt about it.

Dean just stands back and watches for a few seconds; Cas moves with fluid grace as he cooks, relaxed and at ease, his hair spiked up in a way that Dean has only previous seen after a round of particularly hot sex.

It’s lovely and domestic, and of course Dean has to ruin it.

“Where were you, these last couple days?” Dean blurts out. Cas jumps, as though he hadn’t been aware that Dean was there, lost in his own thoughts as he cooked. When he turns to face Dean, his eyes are wide, and though his expression softens a little, he still looks like he’s been caught off-guard.

“What do you mean?” he asks, but the way his gaze flickers away from Dean for just a second gives the game away. Cas knows exactly what he means. Dean simply leans his good shoulder against the doorframe and waits, staring Cas down.

It’s a battle of wits between the spy and the assassin, but Dean isn’t going to give in, and after a few seconds, Castiel deflates. He turns the burner down and sets aside his wooden spoon, then turns to face Dean. The effort it takes to keep his gaze on Dean’s face when he speaks is evident, but it’s not like he needs to be nervous. Dean has a pretty good idea of just what he’s been up to.

“I was tracking down the men who hurt you,” he admits, his voice quiet and his blue gaze steady. That’s what Dean had suspected, and he nods. There’s more information that he wants, though, and he presses. “On Michael’s orders, or...?”

Now Cas’s gaze shifts away. Interesting.

“Yes. Under Michael’s orders.”

It’s the truth, but there’s also something missing. Castiel won’t look at Dean as he starts to turn back towards the stove.

“Somethin’ you’re not telling me there, Cas?”

Dean says it nonchalantly, casually, but they both know it’s anything but. Castiel freezes, then slowly lifts his gaze back to Dean’s.

It’s a raw, open moment. Like the rest of the world has stopped.

Dean thinks he knows what’s coming – he’s smart, he’s used to piecing together fragments of knowledge in order to solve a puzzle, and this is no different.

But he wants to hear Cas say it.

Cas’s throat bobs as he swallows. The silence between them stretches out, gossamer thin, and then Cas says quietly…

“I would have gone even if Michael hadn’t ordered me.”

And there it is.

Castiel would have gone after those men anyway, even if Michael hadn’t told him to, simply because they hurt Dean. He’d stayed by Dean’s side in the hospital, taken him home when he knew that Dean was going crazy in his confinement, and now he’s cooking them dinner as though…

Neither of them are ready to say it. Feelings are a liability, they both know that. But, regardless, it’s there. Has been for a while, if Dean is honest with himself.

It may have started out as nothing but sex, but… Dean can admit it, now, at least to himself. Things have changed.

And from the worried, weary look on Cas’s face, he knows it too. And he knows that Dean knows.

Does he really think that Dean would reject him?

He crosses the kitchen slowly, careful of his injuries, and winds his arms around Cas’s shoulders. Castiel tentatively settles his hands on Dean’s hips, but much of his trepidation seems to have lifted – there’s a spark of hope in his eyes.

“I hope you made them hurt,” Dean whispers into the barely-there space between them. Cas wets his lips, and his grip on Dean’s hips tightens just a little.

“Any death is too swift a death after what they did to you.”

Cas doesn’t have to say anything more.

When Dean leans in to kiss him, it’s nothing like the previous kisses they’ve shared. It’s not demanding, or passionate, or steamy or even teasing. It’s soft, and gentle; an unspoken confession of all the things that Dean can’t give a voice to right now. Perhaps in the future, but right now it’s too fragile, too new.

They’re both a little broken, but they can learn to be what the other needs them to be.

And right now, this is all they need. Fingers grasping t-shirts, bodies pressed close together, eyes closed as they kiss, slowly, gently. There’s no urgency. This isn’t a rendezvous.

It’s a beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I could easily expand on the numerous headcanons I have for these two (because hello, Dean having to flirt with people as part of his job, and Cas being all too happy to take them out once Dean has the information he needs and is clear of the area), there are also a couple of other projects that I'm itching to sink my teeth into, so I won't be continuing this fic. I feel like this is a lovely point to leave it at.
> 
> If you enjoyed it, please leave a comment or kudos! If you want to see what else I write in the future, you can subscribe to me [here](http://http://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo), and you can also follow me on tumblr [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com).
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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